Fiction: Asha questions the meaning of home and self-determination against the backdrop of the Raj

I was born and raised in the hills of Pauri Garhwal. I don’t remember my mother, but I was told she was a pious and kind lady. She sadly passed away during my birth. My father, however, was a constant presence, warm and doting, and I miss him even today. When I was five, he decided to move to Shimlah after securing a stable job at the post office. I grew up in a close-knit neighbourhood, surrounded by children – some of whom went to school, while others worked to help their families make ends meet. My father, despite the challenges, made sure I went to school, though it was a little later than most children my age group. I remember feeling proud of him for this, as not many girls had that privilege at the time.

He cooked for me, did the dishes, and tucked me into bed each night, weaving stories of the Garhwali forests and the grand epics of the Pandavas from the Mahabharata. He spoke of the creation of the universe, of gods, and their manifestations. Everything had a story, he would say, be it the mountains that cradled us, the rivers that wound through the valleys,...

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